


metaphor

by watfordbird33



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Child Abuse, Just trying to tag for "no part of this should be taken literally nor explained", M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Second Person, Wylan Van Eck Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 23:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10909329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watfordbird33/pseuds/watfordbird33
Summary: Here's truth, and it hurts you deep: you draw a jail cell and call it real because you can't handle metaphors.





	metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for child abuse and implied/referenced mental illness, as well as language. Mature themes.

Here’s truth, and it hurts you deep: you draw a jail cell and call it real because you can’t handle metaphors.

 

The day he finds you, you’ve been crying.

You don’t cry often. It’s easier, usually, to lower your head and close your eyes and tell yourself it’s okay. But sometimes the weight of the world presses down on you and you catch glimpses through the bars of what the world looks like, and it’s shattering truth, it’s the jail cell drawing you drew and tacked up behind your cot.

Hey, he says, hands on the bars.

It’s been so long since anyone spoke to you besides your jailor that you don’t know what to say.

Are you deaf? Can you speak?

He isn’t giving you enough time to respond. Constantly in motion. Tapping fingers and wide grin. His very self confuses you, pulls at you, hurts you. You want to paint him or play him out in ivory and black.

I’m not deaf, you say, and then, Did you come to get me out?

Get you out of what?

You show him the picture of the jail cell. Some people need a prompt.

He stares at it, and then at you. He has these eyes like the edges of sunlight around the bars. You think he’s probably a gambler, or a drinker, or a murderer, or all three. 

You’re not in jail, he tells you.

Don’t you see the bars?

Bars?

He’s holding them. You can’t believe he doesn’t see.

My father will be back soon, you say, and your voice cracks on  _ my father.  _ Every time. 

What’s your name?

Wylan. Wylan Van Eck.

You’re a little crazy, Wylan Van Eck, but I like that in a guy.

You shake your head. Press the drawing of the jail cell up against the bars. He needs to see. Why can’t he see? I’m in prison, you say. I’m in jail. Get me out.

He laughs. I’m an expert with metaphorical prisons. One kiss, and those doors open right up.

I’m not going to kiss you, you hiss, appalled. Scared. At his arrogance (he can’t see; can he? that space in your heart where even your father hasn’t gotten yet?) and at the way he says  _ metaphorical,  _ like blasphemy, like truth.  _ Yours is the only truth that matters. _

You still have tear tracks on your cheeks. And a twist somewhere between your navel and your heart. You want your piano. Keys and fingers. You want your flute.

Not your type?

You close your eyes and you’re burning up. Just help me. Please.

He sighs. You might even be too crazy for me. It’s a shame, though, because you’re cute as hell.

You say, Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

Because what if your father--your jailor--finds out, and the walls shrink, and he rips your drawing, and he takes the boys away from you? You have them like a secret in your heart but your father’s taken everything else away, so he could take them, too. Easy. Like floating in the dark.

Hey, the boy in the street says, and reaches through the bars but  _ he can’t touch you. He fucking can’t.  _ You skitter back against the wall and his hand stalls halfway and he looks at you like a specimen, like a curiosity, still amused. Hey, crazy boy. Calm down.

Your father’s footsteps.

You have to leave, you say. You have to get out.

Didn’t you want me to save you? he says, with a laugh.

Get out.  _ Leave. _

He raises an eyebrow. I know where I’m not wanted. He turns, and there are pistols on his belt. A gambler. A drinker. A murderer. All three. I’ll see you around, crazy boy, huh? 

I’ll be here, you whisper, and then he’s gone.

 

Your father says, Was there someone here?

No.

Good. I brought you something.

It’s your flute, dented and scratched from the last time he took it, beat at the walls with it, left it for dead. You take it, blow a note. It’s flat.

For good behavior, he says. Just for a day.

If he finds out about the boys, he’ll take everything from you. He’ll take the flute again, for good.

You play a scale, a trill. Your father winces. He calls you a name. You let it slide off you, water on metal. That’s where you are, in this cell, except you’re rusting, and nobody sees.

I’ll be back tomorrow for it, he says. With a book.

Which book?

Perhaps several. Are you hungry?

No.

You feel like you’ll never eat again.

I’ll bring you something with the books, I suppose. You have to eat something.

The door slams behind him and it’s lock and key, shuttered close. The boy peering at you from beyond the bars.

I’ll be here, you say, to no one, and lift your flute to your lips.

 

Of course it’s flute.

Do you have the key? you say.

To what? Your heart?

You don’t bother to give him a look. It will only encourage him. You tease out the first three notes of an astoundingly difficult technical exercise.

You seem a little less crazy than yesterday, he says, encouragingly.

I’m not crazy. You lower your flute.

You keep telling me you’re in jail. His smile is crooked and dimpled and your heart is saying terrible things so loud you’re sure your father will here.  _ He can’t take this away from you.  _ That’s crazy, the boy says, in my book. But like I said, you’re cute enough to make up for it. Wylan Van Eck, right?

You have pistols. Blow open the lock.

What lock? 

You point.

The boy shrugs. Only lock I see is the one around your smile. You haven’t smiled, yet. Give me a good one. Dimples? 

You’re the one who’s crazy, you tell him,  _ metaphorical  _ and all his stupid truths. None of this is metaphorical. My father’s locked me in jail.

That’s child abuse.

I know.

Or it would be, if you were actually in jail. Look, Wylan, do you want to grab a glass of something with me? I’ll loosen that crazy tongue of yours. And maybe your lips as well.

You press your head to the back of the cell. Stop. No.

You don’t swing that way? That’s all right. Got a girlfriend? What’s she like?

_ Stop it. _

Oh, come on, crazy boy. Play me something. Or smile for me. Or come get a drink. I’ll pay. No expectations. Just friends.

I can’t, you say, instead of  _ I’d never.  _ Any louder and your father will come running. He’ll gouge open your heart and look for the imperfections and cut them out like tumors. He’ll take the boys away. And this one’s smile.

Then tell me how I can help you.

Get me out.

I don’t understand.

You throw the drawing at him. Paper on metal. Get me  _ out.  _

Wylan, he says, and his eyes are sad. Wylan, it’s all inside your head.

 

This is a metaphor, you tell your father, when he comes to take your flute and bring you books and food. I’m not really here.

He rattles his keys by your ear. You hear that? Is that a metaphor?

This is what he does best: makes you doubt. Doubt the street boy’s smile and the reality of  _ crazy boy  _ in your ear.

Is this a metaphor? he says, and hits you. Right in the mouth. Another blow. Is this? 

There’s blood on your chin and in between your swollen lips. The boys are crying. He’s going to find them in your heart. One step closer, and he’ll hear them cry.

Read these by next week.

The books are dropped, unceremoniously, at your feet. A drop of blood shapes itself like a peace sign on the topmost cover and you think,  _ irony. _

And eat something, your father says, as he leaves the cell. You look like shit.

 

The next morning, you ask the street boy his name.

You want to know on the first date? How brazen of you. Wouldn’t have taken you for a pushy one. He bows and he was made for bowing: long limbs ill at ease and this ridiculous flourish, topaz grin. Jesper Fahey, milord. At your service.

He sits down in front of the bars, this time.

Your flute’s gone.

My father took it.

Was he the one who hit you?

You don’t say anything. 

_ Is this a metaphor? Is this? _

I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously. Because this is child abuse.

But is it a metaphor? you ask him.

Is what?

The cell. The blood.

The blood is real.

Your chest hurts. You put a fist to your breastbone and say, The cell feels real. It feels like I’m always breaking. Inside.

Crazy boy, he says, but his eyes are soft.

Can you get me out?

Mentally, or physically?

Whatever it takes.

He says, I’ll do my best.

 

Food?

And books.

What books?

You hand them through the bars. He takes them like he’s used to brushing skin on skin, but you jerk your fingers back so you don’t touch. The boys complain, and you wish you had your flute.

What do you think? he asks you.

Of the books?

He nods.

Shame swells. Chokes into the corners of your lungs and stifles you. You draw his smile with your finger and wish again for music: piano keys, and flute. I can’t read.

He smiles.

I’m not joking.

His smile grows. I know you’re not. 

 

Your father comes back and waits with arms crossed. Cold eyes. You think of Jesper’s eyes instead, and this time you’re not worried about if he hears.

The first one was good, you tell him. Lots of fighting. I liked it when Dace fell in love with Allune. Kind of depressing at the end, though, don’t you think?

He stares.

The second one--

You taste blood and stars. But the bars are fading out. They’re insubstantial. You see city street and sunlight, far beyond. One more hit, and they’ll break.

But his fist drops to his side.

Someone’s been here, he says. Someone’s told you the plot.

No.

I thought I hid this cell the best I possibly could. The best I was capable of.

 

And you realize something.

Your father believes in the cell.

Your father believes in the cot and the bars and the drawings on your floor.

 

_ Who is it?  _ he hisses, in your face.

You want to spit blood but your lips hurt too much, so instead you let the boys go wild in your heart. He can hear them, then. Screaming. Every word. Every forbidden moment you’ve captured behind your breastbone, safe and tight.

No, he says.

No.

No. You can’t have him.

And the bars are gone.

 

When you run, he can’t follow. He turns for where he sees the door, to seize the handle, to throw it open to the world, but you grab it before he can. You wish the key into your hand, seal the door. Turn the lock.

It looks like he’s alone, in empty space, but he still sees the bars.

No, he says, like a plea, like a prayer. You can’t have him. 

Then, You’re too good for him.

And, He’s too good for you.

It’s not  _ right. _

You don’t say anything; just pocket the key and walk away. The sun is constant. No more slices, stripes. It’s touching every inch of you, and it feels like a little like Jesper’s grin.

 

You go downtown, to the bar.

Crazy boy?

He sees you immediately. Stands in an enfoldment of long limbs and now that it’s all of him, he’s beautiful. Before you, drink in his hand. Fucking ten feet tall. 

You’re out, he says, and then, You’re bleeding.

Jes, you say.

He reaches and you reach and somewhere in the middle your hands touch and this is why people write poems and this is why people love to fall in love.

He hit you.

He’s gone.

For good?

He’s where I was. He won’t get out.

Jesper touches your face, so when he takes his fingers away they’re tipped bloodred. Sit with me, he says, and he must see the poem in your eyes because his smile sticks and it’s infinite.  

Breathe, crazy boy. Drinks are on me.


End file.
